Robert Milburn turned upon her a piteous face, white with an intensity of speechless anguish. He staggered helplessly backward, one hand pressed to his eyes, as though to shut out some blinding blaze of lightning.
"Innocence! great God! He shall die the death"
"Ah, you do not understand," she hastily interrupted. "I mean that I thought all men were brave, honorable in everything, business as well as socially; but he was not a brave man; it was a business transaction in which he did me ill. I had measured him by you."
This was a startling relief to him:
"Thank heaven I was mistaken in your expression of 'death of innocence.' But you humiliate, crush me, with a sense of my own unworthiness, to say I have been your standard. What made me listen to idle gossip of the Club—why did I act a brute, a coward?" his lips moved nervously.
"Dearest, show yourself now magnanimous, forgive it all, and forget it. You are so brave and strong—so beautiful—take me back."
"Was it I who sent you away?"
"Oh! do you not see how humiliating are these reminders? I have confessed my wrong."
